Storm Music (1934)

by Dornford Yates

  Her arms were about my neck, and. her breath on my lips.

  "No, no. Take it back. Don't say such terrible things. Oh, John, my precious, my darling." For a moment she clung to me desperately. Then she snatched a note from her pocket and thrust it into my hand. "You say you love me. Then take this note to your cousin and save me from something that frightens me more than death. You can go by the footbridge and tunnel— that key I gave to Florin was Valentine's master key. But you must go before it's light. If you're seen coming back it won't matter because you'll be coming back."

  "But Nell, how can I? I'm on parole, my darling. We've passed our word."

  "How could I help it? I was fainting. For more than a minute my head had been going round. And who have I passed it to? To a fiend— a butcher, that's trying to smash my life. And how am I breaking my word? Listen. This note's to warn your cousin that Valentine must not return. We never told Barley to keep him, so when he comes to they'll naturally let him go."

  "It's 'taking action,' Nell. You swore you wouldn't do that."

  "If you love me, you'll do it, John. Call it breaking my word, if you please, and think the less of me for it— but do as I say. I haven't mentioned Pharaoh. I haven't breathed a word of the plight we're in. But if it comes out that I laid hands on my brother— well, I'll just be ruined for life. Open the note and read it. Here— give it to me." She seized it and tore it open. "Listen to this. 'For the love of God keep Valentine with you. Use any violence you like. He must not return to the castle, and no one on earth must know that he is with you. For the love of Christ don't fail me.'"

  "BUT why write to Geoffrey, Nell? I could tell Barley to tell him. and—"

  "No. no. You don't understand. It's too serious for that. I don't think you know what I've done in abducting the Count. You must give this note to your cousin— into his hands."

  "But, Nell, that's out of the question. Geoffrey won't be back till 7 o'clock."

  "What does that matter, John? We're free till noon." She stuffed the sheet into its envelope and thrust this again upon me. "Take it. I beg and pray you, and give it into his hand. You talk of my reputation. In this affair far more than my name is at stake. If they knew what I'd done, my own servants would use me as a leper. They all took the oath that I took, and it's never been broken. John, since Yorick was built. I had to do it, John— you know that I had; but if anyone ever finds out, there's an end of me."

  "Pharaoh knows, my darling."

  "What can he prove? Nothing. But if Valentine and he get together, I haven't a chance. And Pharaoh would be on to Mona within the hour."

  "But, Nell—my God I can't leave you."

  "Why not? I'm perfectly safe. And if your cousin's punctual, you can be back by eight. I'll send a horse to meet you at the mouth of the entrance drive. You see, you alone can help me. I can't send the note by a servant, and yet it must go."

  For a moment I stood irresolute. Then:

  "All right." I said. "I'll take it. But—"

  'Thank God, my darling." She threw herself into my arms. "Now I do know that you love me. Don't think I don't know what I'm asking. I—"

  "I'm not going to wait for Geoffrey. The moment—"

  "You must—you must. You must wait and see him read it— and bring me back his promise to do as I say. Don't you see, you must wait for Geoffrey, in case my brother wakes up before he arrives?"

  "I'll bet he doesn't." said I. "But what if he does? I've only got to tell Barley to—"

  "No, no. You mustn't tell Barley. He mustn't know."

  "But he knows already, Nell."

  "Not this—and he mustn't know it. But your cousin will understand." Her arms were tight about me, and her eager, parted lips were two inches from mine. "Oh, John, my darling, do it. Do as I say. Go down and give him the note and see for yourself that he reads it— and then come back." She laid her cheek against mine. "Think it's a whim, if you like. Write me down as unbalanced— as making a fuss about something that doesn't count. But I think you must see that I'm troubled; and you said that when I looked troubled ... it tore your heart." She brushed my cheek with her lips, and threw back her head. "Ask what you like of me after— I'll give it with all my heart. We'll live or die together— just as you say. But we're going to live— I know it. We're going to come out of this pass. But I mustn't be stained, my darling— I don't want your wife to be stained with a blemish that won't come off."

  "God help me," said I. "I'll do it." I felt her relax. "But I'm riding blind, my darling, for I cannot see with your eyes. It's not breaking our word to Pharaoh— that I can see. At least, I don't think it is. And then I can see that no one but I can do it, if the secret is to be kept. And I see that it must be kept— I didn't know the tradition was so severe. But why I must wait for Geoffrey— why I must stand and watch while he reads your note—"

  "To bring me back his promise. Until I know that he's read it, I shan't know a moment's peace. Oh, John, my dear, I've got so much to carry ..."

  Her great, grey eye bore out this pitiful truth. For a moment I hung upon them. Then I drew her head on to my shoulder and stroked her hair.

  "Very well, my beauty. I'll go at once."

  I hastened back to my bedroom and dressed as fast as I could. Gingerly feeling my wound, I remembered Helena's promise to send a horse for me to the mouth of the entrance drive. She had, of course, no idea that Dewdrop had stabbed me so deep. Perhaps if I stood in my stirrups ...

  Before I left the chamber I drew the bolts of the door. Then I took Sabre and made for the polished stair. I could not close the cupboard, but I let the trap into place. And then I was back in my darling's pretty bedroom, ready to leave.

  As she drew the curtain aside, to fit her key to the door:

  "You'll change at Annabel, John?"

  "Yes," I said. "God knows I'll have time to burn."

  "I don't know that you will. It's now a quarter past three. You won't be there much before six."

  She opened the door, and I took my torch from my pocket to light the steps. Compared with the charm of her bedroom, these seemed uncommon grim ...

  For a moment the flesh breasted the spirit.

  I thought of the moat and the gratings and the seven miles I must cover, soaked to the waist. And I thought of the warmth I was leaving, and the witching light, and the peerless luxury —and Helena's faint perfume. But for her "whim" ...

  I pulled myself together and led the way.

  The hall and passage were silent, and though we had ears for the watchmen, this time no footfalls came to harry our nerves.

  She would have come down to the grating, but that I would not allow. So I took my leave at the head of the dripping steps.

  Her hands were upon my shoulders. "I'm asking a lot of you, aren't I? You were in paradise, and I'm sending you out—for a whim ... You must try to forgive me, my dear. You must try to believe that— that it wasn't your paradise only, but mine as well. To be there, as we were, in my bedroom, with only the light of the fire well, I'll never be really happy until we are there again."

  "There's no one like you." I said

  She put up her mouth and I kissed her and held her close.

  "I'll be back in four hours, my sweet. Oh, and Sabre's plate, and I never watered the floor."

  "I'll see to that, I promise."

  As I came to the foot of the steps I looked up and flashed my torch. Then the door was shut above me, and Sabre and she were gone.

  Twenty minutes later I fought my way out of the bushes that were masking the tunnel's mouth.

  Chapter 16

  SOMETHING at least I was spared, for Geoffrey drove up to the inn five minutes before his time.

  "Well, I'm damned." he said. "And where the deuce have you been?"

  "I'll tell you later," said I, and put the note into his hand. "And now come out of that car. I've got to get back."

  "Get back where?" said Geoffrey.

  "I'll tell you later," said I. "You read that note."
r />   My cousin stared. Then he drew out the sheet of paper and read the message it bore. When he had done, he looked me full in the eye.

  "You shouldn't have opened it, should you?"

  It was my turn to stare.

  "As a matter of fact, I didn't. She'd sealed it before I came down— in. Then she broke it open and read it to me herself."

  Geoffrey fingered his chin.

  "Well, you can't go like this," he said, getting out of the car "I mean—"

  "Geoffrey," I said, "believe me, I must get back. I'll get into touch again as soon as ever I can, but, however strange you find it I can't wait now."

  "Only one moment," said Geoffrey, taking my arm.

  Despite my protests he haled me up the steps and into the inn.

  In the hall I planted my feet.

  "Look here ... Geoffrey," I said. "I don't want to have a row, but I've got to get back to her without one instant's delay. I wouldn't have dreamed of coming, but she couldn't send a servant and— well, there was no other way. I'd have left the note with Barley, but she wouldn't have that. She's got to know that you've got it, and have promised to do as she says."

  "Oh, well, here goes," said Geoffrey, and hit me under the jaw as hard as he could.

  When I came to my senses I was lying on the floor of a car that was travelling fast. My wrists and my ankles were bound, and my mouth was gagged. Barley was seated above me, watching my face.

  As I tried to sit up, he pushed me back on the pillows which made my bed.

  "Lie quiet a bit, sir." he said, "and you'll soon be as right as rain."

  To this day I do not know why I did not go out of my mind.

  My head was splitting, for Geoffrey knew how to hit; the wound in my buttock was sore; but these things were nothing at all compared with the rage and anguish possessing my soul—impotent rage, white hot, that quenched its fire in my brain; inarticulate anguish that filled my heart with its cries.

  THEY SAY that I fought like a madman, but that was because I was mad. Barley had to throw himself on me to keep me down. And then at last I fainted ...

  I do not think Barley knew it, for my senses had hardly left me before they returned; but I think that discretion came with them, for then I saw that to struggle and fight was hopeless, and that I could avail myself nothing till the gag was out of my mouth. And so, to feign resignation, I lay quite still where I was, and shut my eyes. And that was my undoing for after a moment or two I fell asleep.

  I was, I suppose, exhausted— body and soul. And nature leaped at the chance to "knit up the ravell'd sleave." Be that as it may, I slept and once I was sleeping, I slept the sleep of the dead.

  Though the car fled on, I knew nothing, and I never knew when it stopped. I was lifted out, still sleeping, and though my bonds were loosened, I never stirred.

  And while I slept, Lady Helena Yorick was playing her part.

  The song of a brook woke me, and I propped myself on an elbow to gather my wits.

  The next instant I was afoot, and was staring wildly about me. The wooded peak of a mountain looked placidly back— and a pride of beeches was smiling and a chapter of grey green rocks was casting its stately shadow upon the most vivid of swards.

  It was then that I noticed the sunshine.

  This was rich and golden. It was not the clear sunshine of morning; it was not the brilliant sunshine that dazzles midday; it was that mellow sunshine, that generous, lenient liquor that makes glad the heart of man.

  I was staring at the watch on my wrist— and the dial seemed to shiver before me, as though afraid to tell me the truth.

  It was half-past four. I had slept for more than nine hours.

  The dial of my watch grew misty. I felt the tears beginning to leave my eyes. One of them fell upon the dial.

  So I stood for a moment.

  Then I flung myself down and buried my face in the grass till I heard someone speak to me.

  "Come, come, old fellow," said Geoffrey, "you mustn't take it so ill."

  I made no answer. I dared not trust my voice.

  "You'd have done the same." said my cousin. "Damn it, John, I couldn't ignore such a hint."

  I sat up at that, and dashed the tears from my face.

  "Hint? What hint? My God, if you knew what you'd done!"

  Geoffrey raised his eyebrows.

  "I don't know what she read you," he said. "But I don't think she read you that."

  As he spoke, he gave me a paper— Helena's note.

  Mr. Bohun,

  For the love of God keep John with you. Use any violence you like. He must not return to the castle and no one on earth must know that he is with you. Don't fail me.

  Helena Yorick.

  I think something snapped within me— but that was all. I think perhaps the silver cord was loosed. As a gust that heralds the tempest, the scene in Helena's bedroom swept into and out of my mind.

  Very slowly I folded the note.

  "No," I said, "you're quite right. She didn't read that." I laughed shortly. "You'd have seen through it, of course; nine out of ten people would. But you must remember that I'm no ordinary fool. Besides, I trusted her blindly— trusted and loved her blindly ... So you see it was awfully easy to have me on." I laughed again. "It's rather like fooling a dog or a baby child. A dog, I think. Your dog. You've decided to have him destroyed, so you take him out for a walk and stop at the vet's. He doesn't know. He doesn't care where you go, so long as he can go with you—be with his god. He loves you blindly, you see. He's not the faintest idea that you're going to do him in. You can speak to the vet. in his presence— 'I want this dog destroyed.' You're perfectly safe. He'll lick your hand while you're speaking, if only you'll give him the chance ... But— if— that— dog's — eyes— were opened ... If when you were gone and he was standing, waiting, with his eager nose to the threshold, straining his ears for some signal of your return— if then by some magic that dog was made aware of the truth..."

  "Now, look here, old fellow," said Geoffrey, "I'm not going to take any sides till I know where I am. I want to hear your story from first to last. Don't leave out any details. This show's bung full of detail, and details count."

  I plucked at the grass.

  "I don't know that I care to tell you."

  "Take your time," said Geoffrey. "But we don't leave here till you do."

  "I don't know that I want to leave here."

  "No more do I," said Geoffrey. "It's a very attractive spot, and I'm glad of a change."

  I lay back and stared at the sky.

  I felt a curious detachment from all that ten hours ago had been my life. Looking back, I seemed to be looking across some unbridgeable depth. I had strutted and fretted there— on the further side. It was I that had stopped the Carlotta, strained my back moving the Rolls, kissed Helena Yorick's lips. I had done these things— over there, on the farther side. They belonged to no dream. But they did not belong to me. God knew what they were part of— I only knew that they were not part of my life— for I was here, but they were over there, on the farther side.

  I think the truth is that my interest in Helena Yorick had suddenly died, and since that had filled my being, for the moment my life was empty as never before. I did not regret the lady— I was neither happy nor sad. I simply had no material upon which my emotions could work. The bitterness I had shown Geoffrey was that of a savage critic— not of an injured man. I was impersonal.

  So much for the state of mind which my abrupt disillusion had brought about. For the disillusion itself, a jagged flash of forked lightning had riven my heaven in twain. Helena Yorick had deceived me. Not Geoffrey, or Barley, or any familiar friend, but Helena Yorick— Nell. If fifty million archangels had with one voice proclaimed that this would take place, I would have laughed them to scorn. And yet it was true. Nell, my heart, my darling, Nell had looked into my eyes and fooled me to the top of my bent. The utterly impossible had happened. The ideal I had carved out of marble had crumbled away.

/>   If I had had any impulse, it would, I am sure, have been a desire to withdraw. But the shock had rendered me passive. I did not care. Surveying the position, however, I perceived that I must go on. Nine days ago my cousin and I had allied ourselves with the Countess; the object of that alliance was to bring Pharaoh down

  Until that object was gained, I could neither stand still nor withdraw. Besides, the girl was in trouble, and I had broken her bread ... And yet how could I go on? The Countess had pledged my word— the parole she had given was broken. If honour meant anything ...

  Something uneasily, I decided that my honour was not involved. I had let her play my hand, with Pharaoh's consent. If she had cheated, well, that was Pharaoh's look-out. He had trusted her, as I had, and she had let him down. Well, that was not my fault, and now it was far too late to put back any cards. There was only one thing to be done—the game must go on, and from now I would play my own hand.

  I SAT up and looked at my cousin. "I suppose I may as well tell you," I said.

  "I suppose so," said Geoffrey, yawning.

  "Where shall I start?"

  "From where I left you at Villach, just over a week ago."

  A full half-hour went by before I had done, for my cousin asked many questions, and instantly pulled me up if ever I slurred my facts. When once I protested, he looked at me very hard.

  "I don't trust your judgment," he said.

  When at last the recital was over he got to his feet.

  "I've got to digest this," he said. "I shan't be long."

  While he strolled, I lay flat once more and stared at the sky, and, though I would gladly have stopped them, my thoughts ramped back to the antics which I had lately performed.

  Helena Yorick had piped, and I had danced. That was as much as it came to. But I had trusted the piper, and the piper had played me false. No artifice had been spared to lead me astray. She had piped me into her bedroom and into her arms. She had played upon my senses without restraint. And the notes I had found so precious— so sweet, and true, and natural, were all of them false ...